


The things that stay behind

by airafleeza



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Identity Issues, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Relationship Negotiation, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Slice of Life, Stubborn idiots to boot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airafleeza/pseuds/airafleeza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve doesn’t doubt he’s found Bucky. Steve thinks Bucky’s come back after such a long, long time. Steve thinks this is a second chance, that they’re lucky.</p><p>It is not. They’re not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The things that stay behind

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in March and unfortunately didn't have the motivation— guts?— to post it. I was really inspired by the idea of Bucky perhaps never getting back all his memories, and how that would affect his movements in life. So, viola! 
> 
> Honestly, this is one work that really reaffirms to me the idea that art is never finished— only abandoned. I could probably edit this damn thing for the rest of my life.
> 
> Much thanks to all the peeps who have read it, particularly my beta [Becka](http://www.captsrgnt.tumblr.com)!

It’s like someone’s fist is pushing down his throat, the bed sheets wrapped tight and suffocating on his sweat-soaked skin.

He gasps on impulse, jolting away from dreamless sleep. The air in the room is sharp in his lungs. Faceless bodies with those long, reaching limbs sneak around him as they try locking him in place, as though unaware of the weapon he can be. He won’t be trapped, not again. He has to get away, and tests the bonds only to realize this isn’t a jail. This isn’t inescapable. He’s free.

It’s so easy. Too easy, and he blinks away the softness that remains before waking.

The room he currently inhabits in Stark tower isn’t lived in. In the middle of the night it’s dark enough that he doesn’t have to look at the emptiness, see a reflection of the body he inhabits that’s so empty itself. He is just a ghost in someone else’s house. He goes by James.

Streaks of light escape the blinds, following the curve of bodies— no, only one other body, he determines as he glances down. The source of all the heat, the wild arms and legs, leads to a singular still form, snoring softly. Blonde hair, and a memory: _Steve_.

It’s hard not to stare, to order his wound muscles to get over the impulse to act. Waves of _threatthreattheat_ pulse in James' veins, muscles tensing beneath Steve. But Steve was just tired from helping James move in. Steve didn’t mean to fall asleep. _Five minutes,_ James told himself. Only let Steve rest his eyes for five minutes before reminding him about his own room across the hall.

But then James got curious. Turned off the lights and laid down on the other side of the bed. Both of them on top of the covers, he mapped out something without reason on the ceiling and wondered what it would be like if Steve loved him. Not an old photograph, but _him_.

This one time, as long as no one else knew, it should’ve been harmless— pretending to be Bucky, an old self he doesn’t recall. Before, it wasn’t— when Steve found out he was only reciting a script, reminiscing a life that was just research to James.

It only took moments before sleep came, and somehow in the night, Steve must have been naturally attracted to his strange orbit. Steve took him captive in his arms.

 

* * *

 

It was inevitable he’d fall in love with Steve Rogers. He was the kind of man people immediately couldn’t stand, or would fight until the end of the world for. For him, Steve was mostly the latter. It was only when Steve was being a goddamn martyr— when he was too damn good for anyone to deserve— that James wanted to tear his own hair out.

 

* * *

 

It's a few hours until Steve rolls closer again, seeking in his unconscious state. _Steve doesn't know better_ , James thinks. Evidence suggests Steve will never know better. Steve's voice is groggy, hair disheveled in a way that can't help but be adored.

Like clockwork, Steve’s first concerns are his friend once his eyes have opened and the situation is assessed. Immediately, Steve moves away, sitting at the edge of the bed, spine curved and hunched. His hands fan out on the bed, curled and tense as he faces away. Steve asks how long he's been out.

"All night," is the reply. James tried his best to get away from Steve at the first sign of waking. He failed again.

"I didn't plan on stealing your bed. Promise." Steve tends to put up placating hands. This used to be a source of relief, seeing a person’s empty hands, like a white flag. At this moment, the gesture is unnecessary when James can tell Steve means no harm. Steve stays because he’s lonely and doesn’t think to ask for things; because Steve is a man who doesn't know what to do with those big hands of his when he isn’t defending something.

(A lifetime ago, Steve apparently used to draw. James has never seen this fact for himself.)

Another thought strikes him: _everything I have is yours_ and maybe that sentiment is his own brand of damnation, too.

 

* * *

 

Sam visits during the move from Washington to New York. On their morning run, the asphalt is dark from the previous night’s downpour. Sam tends to fall behind. James spends the comfortable silence with Steve, thinking of something to say when they pass Sam by. He doesn’t quite know why teasing Sam has become so fun, but it has without reason. The reflex was quick to develop once the ice was broken.

(What drove James to change the relationship between them, he can’t say. Sam’s accusation that Steve was self-destructive sparked an offhand comment from James, who defended Steve.

“You’re one to talk,” James said, voice low and strange to his ears. The other two must have felt the same, surprise present on their faces. “Aren’t you the one who volunteered to go with Steve to the Triskelion?”

Sam’s mouth dropped open. The moment Steve let out a loud, uncoordinated cackle, though, Sam had recovered and smiled uneasily. It was a start.)

He’s beginning to learn the limits of what’s too far when he’s trying to mess with Sam. He’s observed the natural and fun jabs Steve and Sam would take at each other, how lightly Sam would chuckle and Steve’s subtle smiles in response.

As he debates his next move, he and Steve pass a park. In his peripherals, James can see how green and open it is, how the singular man on the bench might be a disturbance to an otherwise lifeless scene. The man wears so many layers, sleeves and jeans bunched up as a result. The man’s pants don’t seem to fit, and near his red face he holds a damp cardboard sign. It tells passersby that he is a veteran of war. He is like Steve. He is like Bucky.

 _Same as you_ , he hears in his head. Steve slows, now at James’ six. James stops.

Steve’s run turns into a light walk, hand creeping into pockets and plucking out his wallet, heading in the direction of the man with the sign. He cannot hear the conversation the two survivors of war have, but the salt-and-pepper eyebrows the vet possesses crinkle up. The man looks happy. The man looks like he’s going to cry. Steve rests his hand on his shoulder, writes something down and gives it to the man before shaking his hand and catching up to James. In his head, James knows there’s a high chance that slip of paper contains the phone number for the VA.

The half-smile his mouth curls into cannot be stopped. He shyly looks at the person by his side. This pride is misplaced. James had nothing to do with the man Steve became— Bucky, if anyone, might have contributed. He doubts even that, though— he gets the sense Steve is too stubborn to listen to reason, guided only by his golden heart. But, still. His chest swells.

Steve won’t say a word, good and modest to a fault with these acts of kindness. James’ smile won’t leave.

“What was that about?”

Steve turns to him momentarily, refusing to linger. Steve never stares, cautious and moving ahead. Never looks too long because Steve’s learned it’s unwanted. The adoration Steve radiates is misdirected and wrong.  When he first found Steve, James used to be the one to look away. He wonders now if Steve just couldn’t bear the rejection anymore— the pain of witnessing the inability in another being to summon up a similar affection. James rarely let anyone catch him smiling, even Steve. He thought it was a kindness, not to give false hope that what was lost can be found again.

“He just needed a little help.”

“You made him cry.”

Steve’s back flexes, ramrod straight. “No. I didn’t--” Steve’s thrown off. When his run is reduced to an average pace, James matches it. “It doesn’t seem it all the time, but we could’ve been worse off. There are people out there who had nothing to come back to.”

“You had nothing,” he reminds Steve— refusing to comment on the _“we”_ Steve’s subconscious still supplied sometimes— because it’s true. Steve had no one. The apartment from before the war became an empty building with graffiti on its sides. Steve’s things were either auctioned, or boxed, shipped and prepared for a collection. But Steve is humble when he doesn’t want to bleed on others. Steve ignores this truth and it’s irritating and makes Steve irresistible to him all the same. He wants to pull Steve closer, give him anything he needs. Instead, James runs.

“I had SHIELD,” Steve shrugs, which earns a snort. Steve’s forehead scrunches, offended with a ‘what?” readable in his face.

“That’s kind of pathetic, Rogers.” James wonders if he’s crossed a line when Steve’s sudden bark of laughter draws his eyes.

“Maybe,” Steve says, like it’s a secret. “But they helped me get on my feet. Got me in touch with some good people. They weren’t…” Steve doesn’t finish, but James’ mind supplies: “ _they weren’t bad all the time, y’know, all things considering_ ”.

“And now they’re gone,” James finishes aloud.

Steve gives a knowing look. No one will confirm or deny outright, probably because no one trusts James like Steve does— everyone holding their breaths, waiting for him to snap— but it’s an unspoken fact between everyone involved with the helicarriers: SHIELD didn’t go down with the ship. Nick Fury was another failed mission.

“I don’t think SHIELD will ever be completely gone, Buck,” Steve says, anyway.

“Cut off one head—” James starts to say, but Steve has stopped. James pauses, too, and turns around to face him. Steve, with thick shoulders and chest that move rhythmically with the effortless act it now takes to pump oxygen into working lungs; his running shirt slides down his body in a way that makes James stare longer, appreciative. For the first time in a long time, Steve isn’t paying attention to where James’ eyes fix on or avoid because Steve is busy looking at _him_. It’s enough to tilt his whole world on its axis.

“I don’t think that’s the case here,” Steve says, some time later. “I just think some things can’t get wiped away.”

Without a doubt, it hits: Steve was looking somewhere below the surface, not James at all. Steve was looking for some sign of Bucky. Steve would always be looking for Bucky.

 

* * *

 

With any session with Sam he’d attended in DC, James gets the sense every soldier wants to come home.

And no one could deny who Steve turns to when those words hit the space above their heads, resting in the air like they’re supposed to soak them in through their skin, like rain— _like a deadly gas, and there’s shouting. Far away—_

But he never uses the advice like Steve thinks. James was never in a war. James will never understand the same way that Bucky might.

Steve practically beams, and it’s hard to ignore. Steve doesn’t doubt he’s found Bucky. Steve thinks Bucky’s come back after such a long, long time. Steve thinks this is a second chance, that they’re lucky.

It is not. They’re not.

Somewhere in the space between flesh and muscle, James’ blood boils. There grows a panicked and curdling scream, desperately wanting to tear Steve a new one.

 

* * *

 

It was only a matter of time.

 

* * *

 

“Barnes loved you,” James finally tells Steve one day— angry and pushed in a corner of expectations.

He can’t remember what’s been done— the actions committed by his hands. The only thing he really believes in, all he has left buzzing in his head, is beating Steve's face. The crunch of cheekbone shattering under his fist. Unnecessary for the mission, but necessary to convince _Captain Rogers he’s wrong, they aren’t friends, he doesn’t have friends, he has to make Steve shut up_ —

And James is sorry for that. He’s sorry for hurting Steve. He hates hurting Steve and can’t catch himself in time to stop from doing more damage.

James is tired of walking room to room like a specter, unsure of how to pursue the situation, how to engage. The frustration builds, a result from those smiles Steve gives and he can’t return. The endless patience that ought to heal him when it’s a waste of everyone’s time. There’s nothing left. This didn’t bother James in the beginning. After some time, it started to. A gradual itch turned unbearable.

He’s tried pushing himself. Since the Smithsonian, he’s dug and dug, but it’s all broken clay in his mind, pieces slipping through his fingers. James caught hold of the familiarity of Steve’s face and kept it, and the feeling of _oh shit, I’m a goner_ as Bucky realized somewhere in the early twentieth century that he’s trapped, he’s in love with _a skinny punk_. The understanding that turned his head around was triggered by nothing special. Clinging to James’ skin, it’s a sensation that’s stuck with him. It’s strongest on the surfaces Steve touches, his fingers a shock to James’ system.

James feels closest to him here: Steve, shooting daggers; Steve’s mouth moving as he without a doubt talked back, defending his own actions. It’s the only Steve he has that feels right. Even if neither of them are his.

There is no sound to this shard, this flash. It’s easy enough to insert the words Steve might have said. He doesn’t know what Steve must have done. It was probably dangerous. It was probably the right thing.

It’s also easy to imagine Barnes, horrified when the epiphany sprung him. Barnes, like a man on death row, would accept he would love this difficult man for the rest of his days. He would do terrible things for this affliction.

It was catching hold of this that made James trust the exhibit, made him think that he could go to Steve in the first place. Even if it was an elaborate trap, he wanted it to be real. He had nothing else, no one else. If this memory turned out to be another attempt at breaking him, he might as well if there really was no one waiting for him. With no frame of mind or something to fight for, what was the point of a struggle? He wasn’t ready to live for himself yet.

He stayed in Steve’s apartment after the museum, waiting for him to come home. Weeks later, tired and pale, Steve did.

Steve gawked dumbly at the sight of company sitting at the kitchen table. “Been looking for you, Buck. I looked for you everywhere”.

But he’d been here the whole time, James didn’t say. Steve could only shift around the kitchen like he was numb all over, unable to touch James but fine with asking if he was hungry. James had emptied the cupboards during his wait for Steve. Steve forgot to unpack for three days.

For months there were the trials, once James’ existence was leaked to the public. He knew things couldn’t last, living in Steve’s apartment, until suddenly, being cleared of all charges meant they could be. Watching the clocks and feeling like they weren’t counting down, only projecting them into the future without direction, left James with pointless skills and too much time on his hands. Eventually Stark’s proposal to have _Bucky_ move into his Manhattan tower came, and Steve looked relieved and lighter. Distantly it reminded James of the amputation of diseased or infected limbs. The apartment Steve kept in D.C. tied him there— riddled with reminders and the bullet holes SHIELD didn’t have a chance to contract someone to repair. Before Tony’s offer, Steve couldn’t come up with a valid reason for abandoning it.

“He knows about Howard and Maria,” Steve reassured him, “and he doesn’t blame you. I think this is Stark’s way of making sure you know there’re no hard feelings.”

The gesture was appreciated, but meant nothing to him. Howard Stark was in his file in an extensive list of successful hits. Founding member of SHIELD. Inventor. Weapons. Stark Industry, and eventually— father of Anthony Edward Stark. But that’s all the man was. When James mentioned he didn’t remember the older Stark, Steve’s face fell and Steve has gotten better at avoiding assumptions ever since.

Sometimes Steve’d start with a memory and stop himself. Steve was obvious, but learning to be careful with James. It got to a point where he could see the changes: Steve walks into the room, sees him and softens, like the fight’s been taken out of him. Giving up, almost, as James witnessed firsthand over the Potomac. When Steve leaves the room, he releases the breath that inflated him long enough to maintain the facade that Steve was okay, able to remain upright on his own.

From what he could tell, Sergeant Barnes had died for his Captain, abandoning Steve Rogers. In the beginning there was faith that that whatever was left of Bucky Barnes would come back for Steve— _had to_ come back for Steve. Staring up at the display in the Smithsonian, dedicated to someone younger than the face he saw in the mirror, James thought if he just held out, Barnes would follow through. It was for the best Barnes came home. He could be Bucky for Steve again.

It doesn’t make sense that this is all that’s left when Barnes would have done anything for Steve. Coming back from the dead should have been implied.

So, James breaks that one precious rule of loving Steve in quiet, exposing it now in front of the very person Barnes held in such high regard. No one had touched it. Not even Hydra could have tainted it, but James bears it to Steve. He didn’t make this memory, it’s not his secret to give but it’s Barnes’ fault, Barnes should have been here in the first place but he never showed. He let Steve down.

Steve's reaction, however, makes James’ chest tighten up. Thick bottom lip stretched thin as Steve’s mouth warps, the sharp corners of his frown twitching. Eyes— red and shiny. James notices the veins in them, how tired Steve must be, and Steve shakes a little bit as he turns away slightly. The flush from his chest travels up and up, into his hairline.

“Oh,” Steve says, voice wet. “I… didn’t know.” He swallows. “Are you sure?”

“I —" The doubt wasn't expected, and James steps back, tries to breathe. "Bucky. Yes. He loved you.”

It’s damning, the words spilling from his mouth uncontrollably. Yet James holds back the _you had to have known, Rogers, come on_ , and he’s just grateful Steve doesn’t ask how he knows. Steve, constantly patient now and always suffering in silence, no longer pushes if he can help it. James could tell when Steve wanted to, though. He’d argue James was a good man until his throat ran hoarse. But now Steve is dead weight, standing— because standing is the one thing Steve has always been best at. Getting up, remaining upright, walking it off. James _knows this_ , the thought occurs.

It wasn't worth it. Steve remains, and James realizes with self-disgust that this was so petty. It wasn't worth it. It wasn’t worth hurting Steve. He shouldn’t have shared the enormous burden of a dead man’s affections.

  

* * *

 

The next day, Steve lowers his head, shoulders pulled in like he's going to take up less space this way. It's laughable and oddly touching when he makes the distinction between Barnes and the man before him.

"Call me James. Everyone else does," he shrugs. A flare of worry that things will change passes. It’d only make sense that something ought to give. Steve shouldn’t want James around anymore, a harsh reminder of all that war and time have taken.

"Alright, James," Steve smiles instead, doing a surprising job of appearing unbothered. There is something wrong with how he says the name. The sound doesn't suit his mouth.

Steve holds out a hand, grip enveloping James’ easily. Shaking softly, he says, "Nice to meet you."

  

* * *

 

Like a guest who’s overstayed their welcome, James volunteers to leave. He is met with startled eyes. The expression doesn’t last long; Steve’s harder to read these days and tries to leave plenty of space, tense and watchful. The joy of back and forth quips of friendly conversation is dried up. Together, they are strangers with a past.

“I wouldn't mind if you stayed,” Steve says calmly. Steve looks away, forming a half-smirk that doesn’t crinkle his eyes. “Could use the company.”

In a low voice, Steve adds that it’s good having someone here, and he’s gotten used to James being around. No better than a touch-starved animal, James ignores the deep-set sensation that he should cut Steve loose and accepts the offer made by a voice with disguised fondness. James, taking whatever he can get.

 

* * *

 

It's during breakfast that James apologizes for ruining Barnes’ memory, which Steve can’t understand until he tries to give Steve the jist of things— how those two overwhelming realizations came in a set: the love he had felt, and the fear of exposure.

"Was it because you’re a man?" It seems innocent enough to ask. James read what it was like.

Steve smooths out his furrowed brow. The calm mask that Steve uses to pull himself away from the situation falls over his features. Barnes was familiar with it, and James knows he’s done something wrong. Steve, turning away, goes back to the cutting board and manages to explain it could have been that, but Barnes didn’t seem the type to care about that sort of thing, illegal or not, moral or immoral. As long as no one was getting hurt.

“He was probably just… being an idiot,” Steve grumbles, cutting up the strawberries with fury. James isn’t surprised when Steve nicks the end of one of his fingers. Immediately, Steve pops his finger into his mouth, moving to the sink to rinse and allowing James to take over.

“Or waiting for you,” James proposes with a shrug, chopping the rest of the strawberries and setting them aside.

The loud intake of breath as Steve sucks in air makes him pause to listen.

“Did he know?”

“Can’t say.” The blade moves, a blur of steel before wedging and separating the strawberries, then the pineapple. He likes watching. It’s rhythmic, relaxing. “Were you always like this?”

Steve turns back to the sink. The water runs over his finger. The slick sound of soap as Steve cleanses his cut. They are quiet with unspoken knowing.

“All this time,” Steve laughs, trying to be good natured about this, “and I’m still making a fool of myself.” The reply is delayed. He turns off the faucet and dries his finger. A glance in his direction is all James needs to remain focused on the task before him. He doesn’t want to see Steve leaning against the counter, arms crossed and head lowered. Steve shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile, James silently debating on whether or not he should leave.

“When you’re a kid, things like that don’t seem so important, y’know?” Steve strains. James registers this attempt to reach out, to make him understand, as pointless. There is no childhood in him. “You think you’re going to live forever, that you’ve got all this… time. To do things. Clear the air. Say what goes unspoken.”

James snorts, finishing up the pineapple and moving onto the cantaloupe, slicing off the rind in strips. “In your condition?”

“Why not?” Steve says, defiantly. In his head he can picture Steve’s slim jaw, hands curled up into fists because if anyone is going to get the first punch in, it should be Steve. It always was Steve.

“Never took you for an optimist,” is all James can say.

“I’m not.” There is steel in Steve’s tone. “But, when you’re right…” The sentence trails.

Steve takes the handle of the refrigerator roughly. The insulation of the fridge protests as Steve rips open the door, the suction no match at all. The momentum makes the glass jars on the shelf inside clang loudly. James wonders if Steve will have any messes to clean up before breakfast, but no damage seems to be done. He yanks out a carton of eggs, orange juice, and butter. Steve always tries to cook with butter if he’s frying anything up— especially eggs. Figures he can get away with it now, something about the Depression, extra calories, and how Steve simply insists eggs just taste better this way. No one seems to understand Steve when they do Tower breakfasts. James is the only one who doesn’t argue with him.

Resting the ingredients on the counter, Steve passes a glass of juice to James before stepping aside to grab the black skillet dangling above the kitchen island.

While the butter melts, James sips the cold orange juice, pressing it to his forehead after he’s finished with the cutting board. Noticing Steve hasn’t poured himself anything to drink, he sneaks past him, barely brushing against, and pours Steve a hearty glass. James nudges Steve with it. Steve thanks him. It’s a peace offering, a band aid for now, but he still shifts uncomfortably in Steve’s presence afterwards. With the fruit no longer giving him a reason to be in the kitchen, a distraction, he knows it’s a bad idea to stay for conversation. He and Steve don’t speak comfortably anymore. It’s better to avoid painful silences.

“Bucky was my best friend,” Steve interrupts as James prepares to leave. Mentally, James scoffs. Everything he has now is thanks to that one truth. It’s given him a roof over his head, allies and even the chance for freedom. Bucky being Steve’s best friend is rubbed into his face every day to the point where it’s hard to be grateful. “I don’t think it was a two way street.”

James finds this unfair— unfair because Steve is wrong and hurt, unfair because telling Steve as much will only give fuel to Steve’s fire that’s still burning: _your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re my friend._

He’ll replay Steve’s words later, as punishment. They remain, built up like a tartar he should scrape away and just can’t bear to.

Another twig snaps inside of him like a rib. The sensation of his frayed nerves and the rage that has followed him from the helicarrier— it swirls together, and it’s that breaking bone sound he associates it with. It feels right, even if it’s unkind.

 

* * *

 

“If you don’t want to be here,” Steve says one night, across the table. His utensils sit on top of the table, fists balled up and resting on either side of his plate. Steve’s knuckles are white. “We can talk to Tony, I’m sure—”

Immediately, James feels the stir under his skin, the itch to get ready for a fight. Even if it’s just with words, he always seems to be decently armed.

“I’m not staying as a favor, Rogers,” he huffs out. In the end, he doesn’t have the guts to say what Steve means to him, or how he can’t bear the thought of Steve being alone. Until Steve moves on, he reasons with himself, it’s okay if he stays.

“You don’t seem—” Steve struggles. _Happy_ , James thinks is the word Steve is looking for, but Steve doesn’t say it. Happiness seems to be the least used word in their lives. “You come into the kitchen three times a day to help, eat, and then you leave.” He shifts in his seat. “I miss you, James.”

It’s rare for Steve to use that name, both aware of the way it awkwardly leaves Steve’s mouth. It’s been so long since James heard it that he’d almost forgotten how unfamiliar it is. It is not the name Steve has called hundreds of times in this century alone. It is a strange name to them.

“You don’t miss me,” James says. “You miss him.”

“You _are_ him. Different,” Steve promises, for the first time since the confession, “but you’re him— you. You’re still _you_. I don’t think you could be anybody else if you tried, Buck.”

The name was a slip, Steve looks like he wants to take it back, but it’s out in the open. The uncertainty disappears, and Steve presses his lips into a firm line, eyes relentless on the man sitting across the table from him. It’s unbearable, and violates every agreement— unspoken or not— they’ve ever made. James won’t back down either. Not this time, he thinks.

“People grow up. We change,” Steve continues. His eyes flicker down to his half-eaten dinner, then move back up. James looks past Steve, unable to engage any longer. “I’ve had to change, but I’m still me. You recognized me. And I still recognize you.”

“That’s not--” James stabs into a potato with no intent to eat, appetite disappearing. “That person you grew up with? He’s gone, and I’m—.” A ghost, a shadow. An echo.

“You haven’t gone anywhere,” Steve leans across the table, pleading. He means well. James has long given up and figures he can only convince Steve to do the same. Even if it aches after.

“If you weren’t so stubborn—” Steve sighs, a frustrated sound, and it’s nearly comical, the way his face twists up. Steve’s face does a funny thing where he tries to smile through it. “Jesus, you’re so stubborn, you can’t see it, but I can. I can see it in the way your face moves. The things you say. When you’re not thinking about it. Buck—” James flinches from the table as Steve’s hand lands near his metal one. Steve corrects himself.

“You’re biased,” he shuts it down, standing. “You’re still looking for him. You went around the world for him, and you’re still trying to find him.”

“Last I checked,” Steve replies from his seat coolly, “you were the one who came to me.”

When he leaves, sure to slam his bedroom room, James grinding his teeth and hating Steve’s stubborn side. Impossible to live with, and unable to do without it because it was Steve's. The glaring look, the clench of his jaw. Balled fists. Otherwise, Steve was flat. Steve was false and standing, too easy to knock down. It meant Steve was lost, that somewhere along the lines he'd been broken.

 

* * *

 

Sam arrives on the weekend, unexpectedly sitting at their table. James can’t help but appreciate that his seat is still available, but his pride won’t let him take it. He snags his breakfast plate, filled with the pancakes and sausage he can only assume Sam and Steve put together earlier after a run he apparently wasn’t invited to. He ignores Sam’s raised eyebrows and the disappointment in Steve’s slumped shoulders.

He eats in his room, cautious about crumbs. It’s Stark’s suite, after all. Weeks, and the room is empty besides a few borrowed books, furniture and the knives he hides in them. James is starting to regret not bringing back any syrup with him when he hears Sam call out that he intends to borrow Steve for a couple hours. James doesn’t know what Sam expects from him. He isn’t Steve’s keeper. Steve doesn’t belong to him. Only when Sam knocks and repeats himself does James respond, minimal as possible.

 

* * *

 

It’s late when he hears the front door unlock, and only one pair of footsteps— _Steve’s_ — walk through.

They pace around the living room, circling twice before going to check the kitchen. James hears the faucet running as he imagines Steve to be tending to the dishes left behind— traces so Steve would know James had eaten and wouldn’t worry.

Returning to the living room, James can hear the leather couch compress as Steve sits. It’s a brief respite, until Steve is up walking laps around the couch and coffee table again. It’s ridiculous— Steve is being ridiculous— until James realizes listening in while planted on the floor isn’t much better.

Finally: footsteps getting closer, a knock, and a wary, “You there?”

“Nope,” he says, having moved back from the door when he heard Steve approach. He settles on the edge of his mattress.

A pause. Then: “Know where I could find some jerk named James?”

It falls flat. James tries to laugh appropriately, anyway.

Against his door is a solid thud, the scrape of clothes on a body sliding down to the floor. James suspects Steve’s lost his nerve. He doesn’t say anything for the longest time.

“I called Sam last night,” Steve starts. “Asked for the advice I should’ve got a long time ago. He said I shouldn’t push, but I shouldn’t act… scared, to upset you. I don’t know. It made sense when he explained it.”

_Steve walks into the room, sees him and becomes gentle and kind as though the fight’s been taken out of him. Steve leaves the room, releasing the breath that was keeping him inflated long enough to maintain the facade that Steve was okay, that he could remain upright on his own._

“Makes sense to me,” James confirms.

“Said plenty of other things, but— what it comes down to, I never asked…” Steve pauses. “What do you want?”

James blinks. He isn’t a foreigner to desire. Without the chair to scramble him, and Pierce and Hydra to move his strings, he’s been able to sort out thoughts. Pick a thread, and get better at following it. It’s just that open question of _what do you want?_ that tends to leave him speechless nowadays. _Yes_ or _no_ are easier.

He wants plenty of things Steve can have no hand in doing. Answers. Identity.

Except—

He isn’t Bucky Barnes. There’s no need to second guess himself— he knows how Steve feels— so it should be easy. The words hang on his tongue, his mouth dry and he swears he can’t breathe or swallow. Like an allergic reaction, but—

“I'm not your friend.” James can sense the fight in Steve through the door, despite his promise not to push like Sam suggested. “I'm _not_ ,” he repeats. “But I want to be.”

Bucky Barnes could only dream of straightening Steve’s collar in public, rewarding patience and all his fumbling with a kiss. He wants a second chance to wake up next to the one constant in his life, limbs tangled and no awkward apologies in the morning. He tells himself he’s nothing like Barnes, who was so scared that he accidentally became talented in hiding how he loved Steve Rogers most of all. James wants the same thing Bucky wanted: to be something more.

James takes Steve by surprise when he opens the door, Steve’s back landing on his feet. Wide eyes stare straight up at James’ face. Steve’s cheeks are flushed, and god— what a sight that is. It bring out the blue in his eyes, James reflects— same shade of blue they've always been, always loved. James knows this. It's funny that the serum didn't change it— didn't make it darker or lighter, increase the intensity. The same shade it’s been, the ones photos and film reels couldn’t capture. If heaven had a sky, it would be the color of Steve’s eyes because in his opinion, that kind of blue makes him feel like he’s gazing at the pinnacle of happiness.

It's funny, the things that were left behind, but this— James would argue— this was the best of them. Steve, having to look up to see him. Knowing without a doubt, suddenly, that James in the right place, and he wants it back. Dropping to his knees, ribcage expanding with his large inhale before his sigh, he finally gives Steve a hand. When Steve takes it, he’s back in an alley, hearing another variation of the same excuse. Another— _you should have seen them, Buck, it wasn’t right so I had to—_

_Of course, you had to be the one to do something—_

_Didn’t see anyone else lining up—_

_Maybe ‘cause everyone else—_

_—was running away? So what?_

And James knows this part, that realization of being _in love with a skinny punk_ and Jesus Christ, is he ever scared of Steve Rogers and what Steve could do to him, of what _he_ would do for Steve. Another fatal flaw the two shared: neither the man he was or is were ever good enough to be by his side, and it was cruel to Steve, he thought back then, to put the idea in his head they could be together.

“ _Steve_ ,” he says, having gone breathless in all the silence, unable to say if he believes in second chances yet. Unassuming, Steve asks what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” James tells him, pulling him up.


End file.
